


I Think You're Alright

by Quinquangularist



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Fake AH Crew, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, its all very soft yall, they are Constructing Intricate Rituals, title is song lyrics because im unoriginal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:34:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23669248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quinquangularist/pseuds/Quinquangularist
Summary: The inherent homoeroticism of cleaning each other's wounds after a fight.
Relationships: Jeremy Dooley/Michael Jones
Comments: 6
Kudos: 52





	I Think You're Alright

**Author's Note:**

> title comes from I Think Youre Alright by Jay Som, which is a jeremichael anthem imo. i refuse to write anything for these boys that isn't soft as fuck.
> 
> the song > https://open.spotify.com/track/5txdfbqkdeG75mELpuZXSp?si=izVYx0x6SniRh5ZGfs5Lsw

"Hey,"  
Jeremy looks up from his seat on the edge of the bathtub, yellow light of the hallway framing Michael, who leans in the doorway. He motions down to the bloodied mess that is Jeremy's left hand, "you need any help with that?"  
"Uh," Jeremy stares down at his fingers and the bandages he's trying to unroll in his other hand, almost as bad, "if you wouldn't mind." 

Michael nods, expressionless, and shuts the door behind him as he comes to rest to Jeremy's right, bruises all too obvious in the glaring flourescent light. He sniffs, wipes the dregs of a drying nosebleed away with the back of his wrist. 

"Did you wash those?"  
Jeremy shakes his head, still looking at the swollen, red knuckles and the deep purple that blooms beneath.  
"Jesus, dude," Michael breathes, "they really did a number on you."  
Jeremy shrugs,  
"I've had worse," he tries to stretch his fingers out and grits his teeth at the sensation, "you're lookin' pretty beat up yourself."  
Jeremy pointedly doesn't look at Michael, who he knows has had his face knocked to shit six ways from Sunday.  
"Yeah well, you can get me after. Nothing a little of this won't fix anyway," Michael swirls a bottle of rubbing alcohol, taken from the cabinet under the sink. 

Michael fishes around for some cotton balls too, and, finding a half empty bag, stands both it and the bottle open in the bathtub and turns toward Jeremy, lays a hand out flat.

Jeremy stares at it. 

"Gimme your hand, dipshit," Michael rolls his eyes.  
"Right. Yeah," Jeremy places his right hand gingerly in Michael's, who pushes his glasses up and holds it a little closer to his face before taking one of the cotton balls, cold and fragrant with rubbing alcohol, and gently running it along the back of Jeremy's hand, clearing away blood that's slowly blackening with age and dirt from the roadside where the brawl took place. 

Michael cleans all the unbroken skin he can, leaving the bruised and bloodied spots for a fresh cotton ball.  
"This is gonna sting," he says.  
"I know," Jeremy answers, ready for it. It stings and Jeremy isn't ready for it. He hisses through his teeth, "fuck!"  
"Sorry," Michael mumbles, sticks his tongue out slightly as he concentrates, reopens his split lip and Jeremy's stomach twists, overwarm and tense with his palm resting on Michael's. 

Michael dumps the second bloodied cotton ball into the bathtub, grabs another, his left hand almost too gentle under Jeremy's, runs his thumb across the flat of his fingers, just below the knuckle before the bruises start and Jeremy shivers slightly, fights the urge to pull his hand away, or worse, move closer. 

"You're fuckin stupid to try and do this by yourself," Michael mumbles, leans over to see better as he gently cleans the broken skin, apologising whenever Jeremy winces or tenses up.  
"I know. Just didn't want to bother anybody."  
"Y'know I'm always cool to help with this shit, right? Ryan too, if he's not too banged up himself. Shit, even Gav would do this for you, dude, you don't have to handle this on your own." 

Jeremy nods, and Michael considers his right hand,  
"You think bandaids will do or do you need dressing on this?"  
Jeremy shrugs,  
"Bandaids are fine. S'not too bad. I can still move 'em okay."  
Michael chews his lip a little, makes a face at pain he wasn't expecting, and then nods.  
Each of Jeremy's fingers carefully cleaned and covered up, he straightens,  
"A'right lemme see the other one." 

Jeremy shuffles closer and places his left hand in Michael's outstretched palm.  
"Jesus, dude," Michael winces in sympathy, "you sure you don't wanna get one of the medics to look at this?"  
"Nah, it looks worse than it is," Jeremy wiggles his fingers to demonstrate, grimaces as blood oozes from his knuckles.  
Michael squints at his hand a second, before abruptly standing,  
"C'mere," and filling the sink with cool water, "Let's get some of the dirt off before I start disinfecting it." 

Jeremy stands, grits his teeth as he realises how sore his muscles are, and gingerly places his hand in the water. He makes a face and Michael raises an eyebrow in askance.  
"Hurts," he says.  
Michael snorts,  
"Yeah, no shit."  
Michael takes Jeremy's hand in both his own, gently rubs his thumbs on the back and as close to the broken skin as he can, watches the water turn from clean to grey to rusty brown. 

"Fuck," he says, watching the black scabs soften and detatch themselves from Jeremy's now shaking hand, "okay, that should be alright," he pats the uninjured areas dry with a handtowel, and leads Jeremy back to the edge of the bathtub, sits down on his left side, a little too close for Jeremy not to panic and move away slightly.  
If Michael notices he doesn't mention it, just places Jeremy's hand down on his own leg, before taking up the rubbing alcohol and cotton balls and beginning the process again, which involves a lot more hitched breath and muffled swearing on Jeremy's part this time.

Michael, if possible, is even more gentle, touches featherlight and voice soft as he apologises, murmurs reassurances. 

Jeremy, at some point, must have leaned closer because now he has his head against Michael's shoulder and his eyes squeezed shut tight.  
"You're doing great, J, almost done," Michael says, soft and quiet like he's talking to a scared animal. Jeremy nods against his shoulder, hisses through clenched teeth. 

Jeremy feels gentle pressure through the searing pain in his fingers, feels Michael's hands on his own, softer than his, even though Michael works twice as hard as anyone else Jeremy knows. He should have callouses, but he doesn't. 

Jeremy pulls back as the stinging, burning sensation subsides to a dull throb, blinks at his dressed and wrapped hand, bandaged near-professionally. Neat and clean. 

Michael is still holding it, running his fingers along the bandages, checking for loose areas, making sure his work is secure.  
"Okay," he nods, "that should do it." 

Jeremy coughs. Nods. Rises.  
"Uh. I can… do yours now. If you want." 

Michael seems to consider something for a moment, before taking a deep breath and nodding,  
"Sure, have at it, dude."  
Michael shrugs, opens his arms in invitation and Jeremy squints at him.  
"Maybe sit here, light's better," he gestured to the lid of the toilet, where Michael then situates himself, placing the rubbing alcohol and cotton balls on the countertop by the sink.  
Michael looks up at Jeremy, brow creased with the slightest hint of worry, or maybe anxiousness, before offering him a grin,  
"Well?" 

Jeremy opens his mouth. Shuts it. Starts over,  
"You should uh- I mean, your glasses."  
"Oh, right," Michael deposits his beat up old wire frame glasses on the counter and stares as they immediately fall into the sink before rolling his eyes. 

He looks… softer, like this, just a little on guard with his senses dulled and looking up at Jeremy with warm brown eyes. He has long eyelashes, Jeremy notes, almost auburn and spidery. 

Jeremy moves closer and Michael tilts his head back. Jeremy holds the cotton ball in his right hand, cold and noxious smelling, before running it along the nasty graze on Michael's cheekbone. Michael's eyes fall closed almost immediately, and Jeremy is both glad to be rid of the staring and disappointed at the loss. 

Jeremy cleans blood and gravel off of Michael's cheek, feels shitty whenever Michael's face scrunches up in pain. And then Jeremy is cleaning the cut above Michael's eyebrow, bandaged left hand under his chin and Michael's freckles standing out in the sickly white light. 

His skin is soft where it's intact, and Jeremy swears he can feel Michael lean in toward him sometimes, minute and inexplicable. 

Michael hasn't said anything, hasn't opened his eyes, just lets Jeremy tilt his chin up with the slightest exhalation.  
Jeremy replaces the cotton ball and sets about cleaning away the remains of Michael's bloody nose. Michael licks his bottom lip and it's such a small action, so inconsequential, but Jeremy stares as it happens, quick and cursory, before moving down to clean the cut that split it.  
Michael lets out a breath that could almost be a whimper as the alcohol hits the torn skin, and Jeremy's hand moves up to cup his jaw, keep him steady. 

Jeremy stares at the deep red staining Michael's lips, cut reopened over and over as he spoke and laughed and poked at it. He runs his thumb along Michael's jaw and swears to God he feels Michael press into his hand. 

And Jeremy can't fucking take it anymore, his other hand goes up to Michael's face too, and Jeremy presses his lips against Michael's, the burning, chemical taste like menthol, and Michael tilts his head and flinches when Jeremy puts pressure on his split lip. 

Jeremy's stomach drops through the floor and he lets Michael go, throws himself back. 

"Oh fuck, I'm sorry, I didn't mean- I just- fuck, Michael, can we just forget that happened, I'm so-" Jeremy is reeling backward and towards the door when Michael grabs hold of his hand.  
Jeremy yelps and Michael draws his hand back like he's been burned. 

"Sorry," he says, gently, "just… don't go, okay? I um," Michael frowns at the wall over Jeremy's shoulder, blood smeared just below his lip again, "I liked it," he balls his hands up in the fabric of his jeans, "I like you." 

For five full seconds Jeremy can't think of anything to say.  
He shuffles up closer to Michael again, swears when he hits his hand against the sink. 

"Sorry about your lip."  
Michael huffs a laugh, high and giddy with nerves,  
"Sorry about your hand."  
Jeremy lifts his right hand back up, and Michael leans into his touch in earnest. 

Michael looks back up at him, and Jeremy wipes the blood off his face with a careful thumb, before leaning back down and kissing him again, softly, this time, so gentle he can almost feel the shudder that runs down Michael's spine as he reaches up to cup both hands around Jeremy's jaw, pull him closer. 

Michael's lips taste of copper and chemicals, soft and warm and intoxicating and Jeremy almost falls to his knees with the relief of it all, a bow unstrung.  
"Hm- wait," he murmurs, pulls back "your lip," and Michael concedes, but rests his forehead against Jeremy's expression soft. 

"I've… wanted this," he says, seems to struggle for words, and Jeremy nods, nose barely brushing Michael's.  
"Yeah,"  
"I didn't think you'd ever-"  
"I thought I was just being stupid,"  
"-yeah,"  
"God, we're fucking dumb."

Michael snickers, shifts so that his arms rest around Jeremy's shoulders, kisses him soft and slow one more time, smiles so wide his lip cracks.


End file.
